Sharing Something Personal

Evening. It is hot and humid. I am uncomfortable and bored. I have with me a book which is too complicated in language for my impatient mood and a toy car which I no longer enjoy playing with. The monotonous drone of the fan is irritating.

There is a small plant at my window with two white little flowers stirring faintly in a breeze I can not feel. The flowers must be beautiful. They do not appeal to me. I am...restless.

I am supposed to enjoy myself while I can. I am supposed, also, to wait for something - a breakthrough perhaps, or just a new day, while there is nothing much to do. What is said to be in shortage might also be in need of being passed away with restiveness and a longing for an end. Time.

Evening. It is hot and humid. I am uncomfortable and bored. I have with me a book which is too complicated in language for my impatient mood and a toy car which I no longer enjoy playing with.Therefore I decide to write a note to pass time. Friends ought to share everything with each other. And so I share my boredom/monotony with you.

...

[Wendy sews Peter's shadow to his feet]
Peter: Oh, the cleverness of me.

Wendy: Of course, I did nothing...

Peter: You did a little.

These Wishful Words / Wendy to a Grown Up Ryan

And now you have grown up. I forget the number of times I called you my Peter Pan, the number of times I forced you to promise me not to grow up…shy little you, always agreeing with half fearful and fully faithful nods of the head. Oh, the foolishness of me! Now that you have arrived into the realm of your dreams, have you left any of those old feelings we used to nurture together in our hours of nothingness?

I must have forgotten to grow up with you; or did I subconsciously decide not to? That which we promised never to lose, we have now misplaced in the vastness of our dreams. And yet when you wake to search them, do you find us at all?

You have won your dreams. I have discovered the futility of having any. Your loss has become only a part of those fears of mine which came true even before I saw them in me. In this state of restlessness, you - dearly cherished, will remain my promise for sunny days. I want back what I have lost and instead of the future, my dreams now lie in the past. In the dreariness of this constant blinding agony, I cling still to hope for I believe in past’s tendency to resurface as present. Dreams once achieved cease to remain objects of destiny. But can that innocent beauty of our once-upon-a-time ever die? I lift my eyelids to await us with a knowing optimism…

My consciousness lies to itself; a futile attempt to keep alive the senses.